Author notes: So, I'm trying something different. Since it was brought to my attention that the chapters may be too long to read and understand at once I have decided to cut them into smaller bits. This means that they should be going up ever 10 days or so. Don't worry, it's the same content it's just how much and how often I will be uploading. This is a trial run, if you just don't like it, let me know. Please, enjoy.
CHAPTER 4: THE PROBATION. (Part 1)
Never give your enemy something to hold over your head. Sherlock was beginning to find a whole new level of meaning in that statement. After all, being alone in an empty room with nothing but his own thoughts, left him with scarce to do other than grandly obsess over the failure he so foolishly portrayed hours before. Now, he could only imagine what the criminal must be arranging to mock his weaknesses completely.
The sight which he felt was embed in Jim's memory, was that of a cracked detective gasping for air, and desperately trying to clutch the humanity he denied having, never letting go. And he couldn't bear the thought of behaving that pathetically or foolishly; not in front of the consulting criminal, who wanted nothing more than making the high-functioning sociopath to squirm and writhe just trying to squeeze the fear out of his admittedly massive mind. He exposed a bit of susceptibility, yes; but that was a mistake he won't be making ever again.
No matter how much effort he put in deleting the sensation that having life being ripped out of him without actually dying left on his body. He hated that he remembered. He, however, ironically couldn't seem to summon into his mind the reason nor the origin of the bizarre flashback he had. It played in his head like a broken record that wasn't able to jump the track. He had managed since, to recall a bit more from the conversation, and although it was not a lot, it certainly helped to place the pieces into place a bit more easily. The sentence that was already etched upon the boffin's mind started off as a question: "Are you sure this is all there is about this situation? Saving lives?". It served as a prelude to the statement which had Sherlock's Mind Palace being turned upside down to find its meaning.
Albeit, this realization didn't, by any means, imply that he understood it, or that he could reminisce who had spoken it. He just felt it wasn't as arbitrary as it had felt at first, this had significance beyond his own comprehension. He wondered if it could be, by any chance, related to the dream he kept having when he actually slept. But there just wasn't enough data to draw a concrete conclusion, so he would keep on reliving it until it made sense.
As two empty days passed, something started growing in the very distant horizon. Something inside the detective's brain. A doubt so subtle, yet so present. The new born shadow spoke to him, in something like a distorted voice. Twelve days were a lot, quite more than it should take Mycroft, or even the idiots at Scotland Yard to find him. Then why weren't they coming?
He shook the thought away from his dimension for now. There was no reason to despair yet, just worrisome for the tiny little minds who seemed to have his future in their hands. Surely they'd have to figure it out at some point. If he started losing conviction the whole house of cards would stumble and fall. Moriarty planned on living inside his head rent-free, and Sherlock should do anything in his power to see that it never happened.
Those couple of days were extensibly quiet. No minions entered to leave food for him, nor they came and forced what was supposed to be water -although Sherlock still wasn't quite sure if he believed that- down his throat. Moriarty's rituals had changed, he was no longer being treated as what would pass as a "Guest of honor" in the consulting criminal's domains. He was left neglected and forsaken in that quadrangular hell of never-ending boredom. With nothing to do, nothing to eat, and no sign of his host.
He didn't know whether to feel insulted or relieved at the fact of being thrown aside and ignored by said maniac; without doubt, in any other situation he should be grateful for the fact that Moriarty found someone else to torture for a change, other than himself. But stagnation was not something which he handled well, and his racing-engine-like psyche was already longing for a distraction, something, anything to deduce.
It was sick, really; to yearn for the attention of something that was only looking to destroy him, but something inside his gut yelled at him that Moriarty was better when close than where he couldn't see him; uncertainty was worse than any punishment in itself. If Jim was arranging a doom for him, the detective thought he ought to be present.
At least when the criminal was there, he could retaliate. Of course, it never went further than snide remarks, but it gave the detective the long-forgotten illusion of something akin to control. In that position he could do something about it, but the most dangerous man had forgotten about him, and left him there to rot. It was sick, and he knew it.
Author notes: Let me know if you like it, or if you spot any clues!